Bad Dreams
by Talking Hawk
Summary: Little Elanor awakens one night from "bad dreams" and goes to Frodo for help. No slash.


Bad Dreams  
  
By Talking Hawk  
  
Elanor was terrified. The monster had nearly gotten her, but just at the last moment, the cavern disappeared and she was once more in her little cozy bed. First dazed, and then weary, the little girl clung to her coverlet as she trusted that the breeze of the warm summer air was the sound of dragon's breath. Teeth chattering in fear, she finally inched off the side of her bed, and started off at a full-run, wanting to escape her invisible foe.  
  
Her mind swirling with frightened thoughts, she sped through the open door of the nearest bedroom to hers - Uncle Frodo's. Her feet - plagued by sleep and exertion - soon came to a hault, comforted briefly by the familiar presence of the room. On the little desk in the corner, where sat the Big Red Book, was the dimming light of a melted candle. Some of the wax droplets had fell over the side of the little dish, and the child shook her golden brown curls.  
  
'Mumma will have to clean that up later. . .' she noted mentally. Her gaze took up the rest of the room, finding everything in its usual place. All of the books, the maps scattered across the room, a clean vest on the floor. 'Yep,' she said with a nod of her head, 'everything's the same.' Uncle Frodo always seemed to be perfect in every way, but being an only child during his younger years, he had developed the unsatisfactory habit of littering the floor with his laundry. However, Rosie admitted, her "work was paying off," and the occurrence was less frequent than a few years earlier - Elanor didn't quite knew what this meant, but presumed that it was a good thing.  
  
Finally, her gaze drifted to the bed. The coverlet was disposed of, most likely kicked off earlier in the night. As she approached closer to the bed, she found too that her "uncle" was shirtless, having previously removed it due to the offensive heat of the summer night. Elanor's father had announced earlier that week, "I believe this summer has been the hottest that the Shire has seen for quite some time. What do you think, Mr. Frodo?" Frodo had nodded his head furtively, his agreeing words held at bay by the large amount of chicken in it. Rosie had passed by, shaking her head. "Goodness, Mr. Frodo, chew your food! What kind of example are you setting for little Elly?" The hobbit's laughter had been so great that he nearly fell off his chair, choking a bit on the chicken. Thankfully though, amongst Elanor's distressed screams, Samwise took immediate action and gave his master a sharp whack on the back, sending the offending chicken flying. Frodo later joked, "Who would think that chickens could fly *that* high. . .?"  
  
Now though, the only movement that the master of Bag-End made was that of the rising and falling of his body with each subtle breath. He lay stretched out, his face pressed into the soft pillow at the head of his bed. His arms curled comfortably about the pillow, and the scene seemed so wonderfully peaceful.  
  
Earlier that summer, elections for mayor had been held. Receiving confident assurances from all of the living members of the Fellowship (Legolas and Gimli taking the time to stop at Bag End before traveling to the Misty Mountains, and King Elessar sending a note with his seal of approval upon it, ultimately threatening that if Frodo did not take this opportunity for leadership in his community, his royal highness would be forced to come to Bag End himself and dunk Frodo's body into the icy Brandywine River on a winter's eve). Inevitably, Frodo fell to the pressures about him and ran for office. To his utter astonishment, his competitor backed down, and Frodo received an overwhelming influx of support from the people of Hobbiton. Before long, he was being called Mayor Baggins by everyone in town.  
  
"Now, you see here," Samwise said gently to his daughter one day at the breakfast table, "we're going to have to show Mr. Frodo double more respect from now on because he's no longer just my employer, but he's boss of the entire town. Do you understand, Elly?" Elanor blinked her little eyes at her father, for she had no idea what he meant.  
  
Frodo had given Sam an annoyed look, but good-humor playing across his usually solemn features, he seized a bun and arching his arm gracefully, threw it smack-dab in the middle of the gardener's face. Samwise's expression was first of shock, but as Frodo let out a war cry and tackled his friend, he couldn't help but laugh. Knocked out of his chair, they began wrestling on the floor, Samwise taking care not to harm his master's more fragile build all the while. Elanor began enthusiastically cheering both sides on as Rosie reentered the kitchen, and immediately indignant at the horrible example that was being set for their daughter, she punished them both by making them skip second-breakfast, to which Frodo shrugged and went back to work on his book. Sam later coaxed his angry wife into finally giving him another bun, of which he split with his employer.  
  
As Elanor continued to approach the man, she saw something on his bare back that startled, yet intrigued her. Rising ridges lay atop his skin, a shade pinker than the rest of him. These ridges randomly crossed one another, and reminded the lass of garden soil when it is upturned. Ever so slowly, she reached out her little hand and ran her fingers over one of the bumpy, cool ridges.  
  
She let out a small, sharp gasp as the body suddenly moved, a hand reaching out to grasp her wrist. With shock, she looked up to see her "uncle" propped up on one elbow, poised as though ready to attack. An aggression lay in his fierce eyes that was so foreign to the girl that she was immediately persuaded that Frodo must be mad at her. Her bottom lip trembling, tears began forming at the corners of her eyes.  
  
The anger quickly melted away, revealing a shimmer of regret and self- loathing in them. Despite this change of mood, Elanor burst into tears.  
  
"Iiiiiiii'mm soooooorrryyyyyyyyy. . .! Waaa-aaa-aaaaahhh. . ."  
  
Murmuring his apologies in quick, quiet bursts, the hobbit took the girl into his arms, placing her on his lap with her back pressed to his chest. Pain filling his heart, he smoothed out the child's curls, shushing her gently as not to awaken the other members of the household.  
  
The comforting way his arms wrapped about her midsection soon calmed the tears that words could not. Swallowing the rest of her wails absently, and the water on her cheeks quickly drying, she soon found Frodo's hand to be amusing. Not willing to put any blame upon herself for the incident, she pushed the memory out of her mind of her father reminding her never to sneak up on Frodo while he was working on his book, for in those delicate moments in which he let his guard down, he treated interruption with the frame of mind that "bad men" (as Samwise put it) were still pursuing him. Elanor once asked him what the bad men had done to her Uncle Frodo, but the subject had been placed in the category of I'll-tell-you-when-you-get-older ('When IS older?' Elanor often mused to herself in annoyance).  
  
Allowing the child to do what she wished, Frodo put out his right hand as that his palm was facing the door, and his fingers stretching toward the ceiling. . .all four of them. Wiggling two of his fingers playfully, moving more like legs upside-down than anything else, Elanor's interest soon turned to the stub. Frowning thoughtfully to herself, she held the sides of the hand with her two own smaller ones.  
  
". . .I bet you had a pretty finger," she finally announced abruptly. Frodo stared down at her with wide, surprised eyes. "I wish I had known you when you still had it," she continued, oblivious to the man's astonishment. A silence settled over the room, but Elanor hardly noticed. "Did the bad men take it away from you?"  
  
"Well. . ." Frodo ventured carefully. "ONE of them, I suppose. . ."  
  
"And the things on your back?" she asked, wiggling his whole fingers once more. "Did the bad men do that too?"  
  
A lump filled the hobbit's throat that could not easily be moved. Too talkative at the moment to wait for Frodo's answer, Elanor decided to play a little game. Not remembering the entire rhyme, she started on the pointing finger.  
  
"This little piggy went to market," she chimed, holding the "piggy." "This little piggy stayed home. . . And this little piggy went WEE WEE WEE aaaaall the way home. . ." She ended at the stump, wiggling it as she did the others.  
  
A choke-sob emitted from the man, and his left hand instantly flew to cover his mouth. Elanor looked up at him in surprise, only to be further taken aback to find that droplets of water had spilled from his eyes, and were now making their way down his hand. A light flooded in from the ajar door, and two forms entered the room. The first put her hands on either side of Elanor's hips, and picking her up, carried her out of the room. The other frowned, and went to sit next to the Baggins.  
  
"I-I'm sorry," Frodo choked as an arm slid across his shoulders. "I don't suppose I'm being a very good example to Elly with acting the way that I do. . .crying for no reason. . ."  
  
"No reason?" Samwise repeated, criticism in his tone. "If anybody got a reason to, it sure is you. . . . Besides, you're a fine example to little Elanor. Why, you'd probably make a better father than I'll ever be."  
  
"Don't say things like that!" the other replied. Glaring his eyes fixedly at his companion, his gaze soon dropped and his shoulders sagged hopelessly. "I just feel so horrible, grabbing Elanor's wrist like she was some sort of. . .of. . ."  
  
"Orc?"  
  
Frodo sighed. "I suppose. . ."  
  
"I can have a bit of a talk with her. She won't do it again, I promise you that. . ."  
  
A shake of the head. "No, no. There was nothing wrong with it. . . It was just. . .ME. . ."  
  
Sam frowned. "It's not yer fault, Mr. Frodo. You both just gave each other a bit of a scare, that's all. No harm done."  
  
Frodo let out a chuckle that sounded dry to his friend's ears. "No harm done? I can only imagine what kind of harm I'm doing, being the ghost in the corner that only comes out of hiding when there's a meal. . ." He hung his head. "I think they worry about me. . ."  
  
'We all do,' Sam pondered, but thought better of saying it. He hated to see his master like this. "Eh, they can understand. Besides, they know that you'll always be safe and sound right here at Bag End." The gardener lifted up his arm, making as though he were using a frying pan as a weapon (as he did so many years ago). "If anythin' comes here, they know *I'll* take care of it. . ." The man gave his invisible foe a nice whack over the head, and Frodo could not help but laugh at his little performance.  
  
"Oh, Sam," he breathed through his laughter, "where would I be without you?"  
  
The Gamgee grinned, both amused and pleased that his joke had rubbed his friend the right way. "Here, 'cept with twice as much living space without havin' all the extra houseguests."  
  
Frodo laughed once more. "Sam, I would have it no other way!" His grin turned into a soft smile, a tender glow in his blue eyes. Samwise smiled back, feeling for once that he had served his master well.  
  
Seeing that his companion felt better, Sam's attention soon drifted to the shirtless back. Frowning, he eyes the scars, sickened at the memory of when the cuts had still been fresh, finding his master lying on the ground, all but dead.  
  
Curiosity overtook him much as it had his daughter. "Do they. . ." he ventured carefully, "still hurt?" He lifted a hand, making as though to touch one of the ridges, then retracted his hand at the last moment for fear that he might harm his master.  
  
Frodo's eyes saddened, a frown crossing his lips. He turned to his friend, and his voice deep and melancholy, he replied,  
  
"Only in bad dreams. . ." 


End file.
